Post by jeannerené on Sept 18, 2007 21:44:18 GMT -8
Ode to Fate
Part One ~ Misfortune ........
Wayfarers we, masters of many a discourse,
navigators of these eternal seas . . . we the rabble, the masses,
children of uncharted destiny.
We seize the wheel, hoist the sail, but consider the course,
n’er how keenly mapped, still precarious be,
since every man, his woman and child,
a simple passenger on this vessel of God’s beloved Fate,
and prisoner to her unknown mandate.
Atop the mast, she reigns, this patroness of circumstance,
a silent captain beholding each indefinite voyage e’re we venture.
Proudly we scuttle round her sovereignty, until she speaks,
and shivering at her summons, mark we the timber of her call,
knowing not, whom her words may solicit
or bid pay homage on knees across her stately bow.
Yea, we do well to heed her command. understand
her drift into the unpredictable winds,
wary in the knowledge, that upon tending her glorious sails
she can, our winged Fate, any minion pluck and bind to her liege.
Matters not, it be a humble breeze or torrid squall,
she casts her terms, the judgment random,
eyes blind, she drops her net from indifferent heavens
and we are snared . . . towed upon the seas of favor or misfortune.
Woe, to us, the helpless souls, who drag
along the brine of misery, for Fate follows with a deadly hand,
and too errant eye, to our backside steals,
hand upon a sinking shoulder, fingers deep into our flesh,
we are bond to each whimsical decision in the passing of her heart’s desire.
She requisitions some dastardly deed, some sequence bewitched,
demands some twist of time and happenstance, irrevocable . . . immutable.
She bellows . . . and we drown, too well,
carried to unfamiliar shores on currents of grief and humility.
From out of the calm,
the rush of wings can be heard across both land and sea,
as back to her lofty perch upon the steadfast craft,
Fate strums a heavy harp and sings a solemn reverie,
a vibration of broken-hearted melodies quivering on the wind’s hush
and whispered in mankind’s ear:
. . . of stories to be told without voice,
. . . of lips that will bare no kiss,
. . . of roads never to be travelled, deeds that will have no undoing,
. . . "of this child for whom there be no crossroads home.
. . . Care I naught your mother’s breast shrivels,
. . . Weep naught the babe ner’ suckles life or love’s temptations.
. . . Feel naught for your wails met only with my silent damnation”
And in the aftermath of providence to which they were abandoned,
the castaways awake to Fate’s comfortless requiem,
and to heartache that exists so tethered by tribulation
it scarce can drum an added palpitation . . .
scarce can murmur one more litany of despair.
The bearer walks in bewilderment,
moves in mystification through belief and denial,
holding fast to tears, lest the last sorrow fall,
and breach the bitter shore beneath their feet.
They wait . . .
ankles washed in the ebb and flow of the tide
with no other choice but to take flight
upon the returning wind to the vessel of the living,
and dare to look God’s mistress in the eye.
jeanne rené revision 10.05.............
Part One ~ Misfortune ........
Wayfarers we, masters of many a discourse,
navigators of these eternal seas . . . we the rabble, the masses,
children of uncharted destiny.
We seize the wheel, hoist the sail, but consider the course,
n’er how keenly mapped, still precarious be,
since every man, his woman and child,
a simple passenger on this vessel of God’s beloved Fate,
and prisoner to her unknown mandate.
Atop the mast, she reigns, this patroness of circumstance,
a silent captain beholding each indefinite voyage e’re we venture.
Proudly we scuttle round her sovereignty, until she speaks,
and shivering at her summons, mark we the timber of her call,
knowing not, whom her words may solicit
or bid pay homage on knees across her stately bow.
Yea, we do well to heed her command. understand
her drift into the unpredictable winds,
wary in the knowledge, that upon tending her glorious sails
she can, our winged Fate, any minion pluck and bind to her liege.
Matters not, it be a humble breeze or torrid squall,
she casts her terms, the judgment random,
eyes blind, she drops her net from indifferent heavens
and we are snared . . . towed upon the seas of favor or misfortune.
Woe, to us, the helpless souls, who drag
along the brine of misery, for Fate follows with a deadly hand,
and too errant eye, to our backside steals,
hand upon a sinking shoulder, fingers deep into our flesh,
we are bond to each whimsical decision in the passing of her heart’s desire.
She requisitions some dastardly deed, some sequence bewitched,
demands some twist of time and happenstance, irrevocable . . . immutable.
She bellows . . . and we drown, too well,
carried to unfamiliar shores on currents of grief and humility.
From out of the calm,
the rush of wings can be heard across both land and sea,
as back to her lofty perch upon the steadfast craft,
Fate strums a heavy harp and sings a solemn reverie,
a vibration of broken-hearted melodies quivering on the wind’s hush
and whispered in mankind’s ear:
. . . of stories to be told without voice,
. . . of lips that will bare no kiss,
. . . of roads never to be travelled, deeds that will have no undoing,
. . . "of this child for whom there be no crossroads home.
. . . Care I naught your mother’s breast shrivels,
. . . Weep naught the babe ner’ suckles life or love’s temptations.
. . . Feel naught for your wails met only with my silent damnation”
And in the aftermath of providence to which they were abandoned,
the castaways awake to Fate’s comfortless requiem,
and to heartache that exists so tethered by tribulation
it scarce can drum an added palpitation . . .
scarce can murmur one more litany of despair.
The bearer walks in bewilderment,
moves in mystification through belief and denial,
holding fast to tears, lest the last sorrow fall,
and breach the bitter shore beneath their feet.
They wait . . .
ankles washed in the ebb and flow of the tide
with no other choice but to take flight
upon the returning wind to the vessel of the living,
and dare to look God’s mistress in the eye.
jeanne rené revision 10.05.............
